


The Fine Art of Necromancy

by plaguling



Category: Original Work
Genre: /end warnings, Abuse, Bullying, Cults, Diviners, Ghosts, Hogwarts knockoff ngl, Independent(TM) Children, Necromancers, Original Character(s), Other, Sigils, Trigger Warnings, animal death (but it comes back), experimental culture, jesus here we go, tags will be added as needed, this one is going to be a doozie off the bat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:08:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24742861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plaguling/pseuds/plaguling
Summary: It’s said that off the south coast, from the depths of those icy waters dead men walk again. Of course, Third thinks to himself, that’s absolute horse shit. Necromancers haven’t existed in hundreds of years; they were all hunted down and their bloodlines forcefully ended centuries ago.However, he finds all of this all very hard to believe when he holds in his hands a resurrected frog, croaking happily and challenging his reality.





	1. Not a goddamned necromancer

**Author's Note:**

> Excuse the rough draft, I'm basically word vomiting this idea on paper to get it out of my head before it leaves.

It’s said that off the coast of the Southern Island Kingdom, from the depths of those icy waters dead men walk again. 

Of course, Third thinks to himself, that’s absolute horse shit. Necromancers haven’t been seen in hundreds of years; they all were hunted down and their bloodlines cut off centuries ago. Third loves those stories, especially the ones about Eviscerator, Taker of Hearts and Necessary Parts. One of the gristliest hunters, Third can’t begin to count the number of times he’s played Necromancer Hunt in the open plains past the farm fields with his friends. He was never cast as Eviscerator, of course, you’ve got to look like a hero to be a hero (or so his friends said), but he made a dutiful undead thrall.

He’s much older (and, Third thinks, much more mature) than he was when his wet nurse first told him about the oceans and their supposed army of the dead. He remembers playing that game too. In summer, out by the pond on Justice’s uncle’s cousin’s step-brother’s land, he would rise (dutifully, theatrically undead) from the warm waters and chase around until he was hit by a stick or errant dirt clod at which point (moaning and writing, only occasionally in real pain) Third would fall to the ground until the necromancer (usually one of the second-tier pretty boys who could pull off being charismatically evil but was not quite at hero-level charm) tagged him on the back of the head, thus permitting him to shamble about once more. 

He always wanted to be the hero, though. He never said it, as soft spoken and subdued as he was, but he wanted to be a hero so badly he could taste it. Someday, he swore to himself, he would stand with the boys who took the side of the legendary Sheer Cliff Castle (actually an old boat house that Justice’s uncles’ cousin’s step-brother had long ago given up on fixing) with their enchanted staves and swords (the nice sticks) and beat up the undead hordes marching from the edge of the ocean. Or soggy boys crawling out of a pond. Imagination is a remarkable thing. 

It is with these thoughts rattling about his head that Third, Third Born of Merciless the Sword Sworn (obviously) denies what his eyes see, trying to convince himself that he has managed to play a trick on himself. And what his eyes see his mind cannot comprehend. He reminds himself that his lineage is pure; he may be a shameful third-born son, but he’s from a fine house. He sternly corrects himself that, as a damned dirty third born, he couldn’t even dream of having magic. And, he damn near says out loud, even if he were to have magic, he would have be some sort of noble, honorable mage, like a dispeller or a diviner.

But there it is, undeniably: a small frog crushed not 10 minutes ago by Justice’s cruel hand to prove a point (if I were your father, this is what I would have done to you the second you popped out your mother’s whore cunt, before you could bring your family any more disgrace). Alive. Croaking softly and cradled in Third’s hand, as if its guts had never been squeezed out between Justice’s fingers like raw sausage. 

He couldn’t be a necromancer. He just had seen it wrong. He didn’t scoop up a mangled corpse off the ground, weeping for its untimely death, didn’t cup its dead little body in his hands. He didn’t feel his hands throb unnaturally, there was no gentle cooling sensation emanating from his hands as they encircled the lifeless frog.   
It was just playing dead. 

There was no other explanation. He would not accept any other explanation. Third was not a goddamned necromancer.


	2. Endurance

Third darted up the stairs to his family’s country home. It was a tall, brick affair speaking of generations of old wealth, but had started falling into disrepair twelve years ago. His father, Honor, told him that it was only coincidence that his family’s reputation and standing had plummeted when Third was born.

He pressed open the door to the servant’s quarters (his father might see him if he came in the proper way), looking down each side of the hall before stepping in. Quickly and quietly, he made his way up to the room of his middle sibling (Endurance). He rapped softly on the door, then pressed in. 

There was Endurance, laying on her bed, her labored breathing rasping across the room. She turned her head slightly to look at who had entered, and smiled when she saw it was Third. Weakly, she beckoned him over with her hand. 

Third moved across the room and took it, kneeling at the side of her bed, “What did the doctor say today?”

“More bullshit,” Endurance said, a small smile picking at one corner of her lip, “He insists I’m getting better to my face, he doesn’t know that I can hear him talk to mother and father in the hall. If I could as much as stand up on my own, I’d kick his lying ass.”

Third sat there in silence for an awkward moment, his hand idly reaching out to grab hers. Even two years younger than her, his palm engulfed hers. He didn’t know why she’d been named Endurance, Truth would have been a better name. But he wasn’t a diviner, he didn’t look into the future of the children of noble houses and suggest names for them.   
Third has always felt a bit resentful that his family didn’t even consult a diviner to look into his future, but his mind swings back to the certainly-never-has-been-dead-frog and thinks that maybe, if there was even a chance that he was perhaps, probably not, definitely not, a necromancer, it’s probably for the best that some batty old diviner didn’t look into his future and recommend throwing him on a pyre on the spot. But Third has always been and will always be a horrid name in his book.

He rested his head on the mattress next to his sister’s bed as she ran her hand through his dark hair. “But I don’t want you worrying about me,” she said, “Don’t you have a birthday coming up? Your thirteenth one, right?”

Third pulled his lip up to the side, scowling. He never got large celebrations for his birthday like his eldest sibling, Victory. Even Endurance had well attended parties that her friends would come to. “Nothing to look forward to there.” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Endurance said, cocking her eyebrow and giving Third a conspiratorial smile. “I’ve heard that this one might be a big one! And aren’t you excited about the Trials of the Craft? You will be turning thirteen after all. Didn’t Mother say that you’d get a new name on your birthday?”

Third sat in silence, eyes cast on the floor. Endurance, noting this as unusual behavior, simply waited until Third was ready to talk some minutes later.

“Can I tell you a secret? You have to promise not to tell.”

Endurance mimed locking her lips together and throwing away the key. From behind closed lips, Third is pretty sure he heard her mumble ‘my lips are sealed.’ He giggled slightly at this, but became solemn once more quite quickly. 

He spend a few more seconds thinking about how best to broach the subject, kicking his feet idly. Best just to go at it, there really was no sugar-coating this type of thing.   
“I think I might be a necromancer,” he whispered, not even making eye contact with Endurance as he uttered the words.

To her credit, Endurance’s hand froze for only a moment before resuming playing with Third’s hair. 

“What makes you say that?”

“Justice killed a frog, you know how he is, and I touched it and…” Third’s words faded into nothing as he found himself unable to even finish the phrase.   
“Well, when the undead frog rebellion ravages the fields and terrorizes the serfs, I’ll make sure to write a strongly worded letter to you.”  
Third looked up at his sister, “You’re not worried?”

She snorted, then leaned in towards Third, ruffling his hair, “I’d be worried if Justice was a necromancer. But you? You’ll be the nicest necromancer anyone has ever seen. You’ll be the kind of mage who’ll bring back mothers that died in childbirth and old men who never got to say goodbye to their grandchildren. Secretly, obviously.”   
“Obviously.” Third was starting to feel a little better. “But how come I’m a necromancer? I thought those bloodlines were all dead?” He could list off all the most powerful hunters alphabetically and in order of their kill counts.

Endurance pulled her hand back and shrugged, “You look at me like I know everything. But I tell you what, I’ve always thought you were special. So other than completely betray my trust in the accuracy of history books, what have you done today?”

Third went on to tell her about how he managed to ‘kill’ a hero today by holding his breath in the pond and leaping out at Fortitude, which earned him a large knot on the top of his head (he let Endurance feel it) and incurred the wrath of Justice. Together, they lamented even the existence of Justice and wondered how in the name of the All Seeing God he could possibly have merited his name. 

Third was in the middle of a dramatic reenactment of how Purity had fallen into a ravine and somehow managed to lose his shoe to the small stream when one of the manor’s servants came to get Third. 

“Your mother, Madame Merciless, wants to see you.”


	3. Merciless

She must know. Third didn’t know how she would know, but he knew that she knew. That’s just how Merciless was. He walked the long halls to Mother’s study as a prisoner walking to the execution pyre. Third trailed behind the servant, contemplating with increasing seriousness how far he could get if he ran. But he always came to the same conclusion: about a three-quarters of a mile, give or take. Mother may be a disgraced Sword Sworn currently on leave from serving her Lord, but she was still a Sword Sworn to the core. He had seen her practicing her forms in the garden, her own personal retinue of mages throwing spells at her. In all the time Third had watched her, she had never once missed catching a spell on her enchanted rapier and throwing it off its trajectory. 

Third remembered when Ambrose, a common-born mage, had a dispute with her. Third was eight at the time, and he clearly remembered the stormy day even if he didn’t remember the reason for the argument. Ambrose had foolishly challenged Mother to a duel. 

Even when he was so young, Third could remember understanding that Mother was playing with Ambrose for much of the duel. Ambrose was talented, a mage who had learned to evoke lightning, but Merciless was simply better. After deflecting strike after strike of Ambrose’s lightning, taunting him the whole time, Ambrose decided that he would try to be clever. He threw a bolt up into the stormy skies, then drew it back down. With the magical bolt came back, it brought with it real lightning. 

However, when Ambrose was looking up at the skies, Mother drew her dagger and laid it across the blade of her rapier, just above the handle. It was the first time Third had ever seen her use it and he hasn’t seen her use it since. Ambrose called the lightning back down, sure that Mother’s sword would be useless against the real lightning. Third remembers watching the lightning strike the tip of Merciless’s rapier and course faster than the eye could see towards Mother. However, when it reached where the dagger lay across the blade, it stopped and became a ball of crackling lightning, resting right on the tip of Mother’s dagger.

Third saw Mother hesitate one moment, but not out of indecision. He saw her face twist into a strange smile as she watched Ambrose’s face fall in fear. After she knew that he understood the gravity of his mistake, she launched the lightning back. Ambrose didn’t even have time turn or run or counter the bolt; he simply went rigid as the lightning coursed through his body, then fell with the smell of burnt meat. 

None of the other mages (or Third for that matter) ever dared cross her after that display. 

It was with these thoughts that Third gingerly rapped on Mother’s study, sure that he was about to be sliced or fried or otherwise horribly mangled. She knows, he repeated to himself, Best to prepare for death now. Mother’s favorite mage in her retinue, Virility, opened the door, looking down on Third like a horse master looking upon a particularly disappointing foal, pragmatic dislike found in Virility’s sour face. He stepped aside, moving his arm in a sweeping ‘come in’ motion. 

Mother sat at her desk, hands folded and back straight, her greying hair shorn close to her head. Her appraising eyes took in Third with all the affection of a rock, looking the boy over from head to toe. She looked tired for a moment, then seemed to rally, standing up and walking over to loom over Third.

This is it, he thought, she’s going to throw me in the fireplace. 

“I believe congratulations are in order.”

Third looked up at Mother, slightly puzzled. Oh, he decided, she must be fucking with me. Like she played with Ambrose. 

At his silence, Merciless lifted a dark eyebrow, “It is polite to speak when spoken to. We can’t have people thinking you’re a rude brat. And for the All Seeing God’s sake, wipe that stupid look off your face.”

It took a moment for Third to convince himself that he was probably not in imminent danger. “Forgive me, Mother, but, um, congratulations for what?”

Merciless suddenly looked very tired once more. She looked up at Virility, presumably to share an empathetic look of frustration and disappointment. “For having a face that looks like stepped in dog shit,” she whapped Third on the head, lightly but unkindly, “It’s for your thirteenth birthday.”

“Oh, I just… it’s never been cause for celebration before?”

“Well, I’ve decided that it’s high time you joined the family formally. The vassals of the surrounding fiefs as well as our Lord have agreed to join us tomorrow evening to witness your Trials of the Craft,” she threw a warning glare down at Third, “Do not disappoint my lineage.”

Third shudders at the prospect.

“You will also be receiving a proper name tomorrow. I expect you to accept it graciously.”

“Yes, mother. Um, would it be possible for me to choose, you know, my own name?”

Merciless waved a hand flippantly, “Unnecessary, it’s already chosen. Don’t concern yourself with it.”

Third didn’t know what it was about her tone or mannerisms, but he did concern himself with it. When he thought about her words late that night as he lay in bed (after being fussed over by the servants and coached by his father on how not to utterly humiliate the family), he couldn’t shake the feeling that all was not as it seemed. In fact, he had the sneaking suspicion that all was much, much worse than he could even dream. 

After being known as fucking ‘Third’ for his whole life, living with the shame of being known as evidence of his parent’s excess and selfishness (he had never heard of another family that had three children, not even in legends. Well, at least the legends that came after the Necromancer attacked), what name could be worse?   
What kind of name must it be if Mother had to instruct him to accept ‘graciously?’


	4. The Party

Third’s father had outdone himself on the party preparations, Third thought to himself. He hadn’t seen a party this grand since Victory had been accepted as a vassal of the Lord, now owning his own fief about a half-day’s ride north of Third’s family’s land. 

It was a huge change from what Third was accustomed to. In comparison, his last birthday had consisted of sulking around the manor, conspicuously placing himself in Mother and Father’s way in the hopes of receiving some recognition until Mother snapped at him to get out from under foot. However, Endurance never forgot his birthday, and the day was saved when she took him on a walk into the vineyard for a picnic and to steal the best grapes off the vines. The ones used for wines were sour, but she always had the good sense to bring along a small container of sugar to roll them in before eating. 

In contrast, as of right now, he sat at the head of the long-table in the courtyard watching the moves of all the guests with the keen suspicion of someone who was afraid that, at any moment, the crowd would turn on him. 

He was right, but not in the way that he expected. 

It was when everyone was busy dancing to a wild rhythm played by the local bards that Victory came over to Third (Third was sitting at the table still, as he had never been taught to dance). Victory wore the colors of a court mage of the local Lord, draped in billowing yellow and purple fabrics, a leather belt and mage’s component pouch fastened around his waist.

However, unlike the other Mage Sworn in attendance, Victory also wore a short sword at his hip. While the other mages of the court tended to fall on the waifish side of stature, Victory had the build and swagger of a Sword Sworn (Third supposed that he had inherited this from Mother). He held himself proudly and in rigid control, a man of few words and unwavering competence (which was much more like Father). 

“Happy birthday.”

Third didn’t respond, sinking into his seat and picking idly at the tablecloth, pointedly avoiding eye contact. Victory sighed, then took the seat next to him. 

“Are you excited about your Trials?”

Third shrugged and slumped lower in the chair, “I guess.”

Victory stared into the distance, watching colorful couples swirl and clap alongside the music. “I remember my Trials of the Craft,” Victory gave a small huff and a half smile, “I was so scared I would mess up. I remember that the Divination was the worst.” He paused for a moment, waiting for Third to respond, but pressed on after a moment of silence, “After the High Mage told me that I had magic, I was worried that I would do too well at Divination and be sent to the temple. Fortunately, I was terrible at that Trial and I didn’t have to become a priest.” Victory smiled conspiratorially and leaned towards Third, “I think I’d be a pretty shit priest.”

“Well I think you’re pretty shit all around.”

Victory’s smile dropped from his face like he’d been struck, many emotions playing across his face: sadness, regret, and then determination. “I couldn’t protect you forever. Everyone has to learn to stand on their own.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night. I’ll just live with the scars.”

Victory’s face hardened and his jaw set, a look Third admired. The last time Third had seen it, Justice got kicked in the stomach so hard he’d puked. But too little too late. 

“Why didn’t you talk to your mentor about it? They should have helped you,” Victory said.

“What mentor?”

“Um, your mentor? Mother and Father were discussing him as I was being sent off. Someone to help you learn the ways of the courts and prepare you for the trials. Some common-born mage called Abrum? Or maybe Ambis?”

“Oh. Ambrose. He challenged Mother to a duel.”

“Ah.” Victory knew there was only one way those ended, especially as Mother was standing across the yard from them, chatting up the Lord ___. Third noticed that she was wearing her Sword Sworn regalia once more. Third had never actually seen her wear her colors, as she had been dismissed from Lord ___’s employ until she could restore balance to her family, offset by Third, the extra child.

“So,” Victory continued, worry mounting in his usually even tone as he spoke, “You’re telling me that you had no mentor? No one prepared you for your Trials?”

“No. Is that an issue?”

In response, Victory’s eyes widened and he abruptly stood up from his chair and strode across the courtyard towards Merciless. 

Third wished that Endurance was here. However, Mother had told his that she was feeling unwell and needed rest, and that was that. 

Third turned his attention back to the drama unfolding in front of him as Victory tapped Merciless’s shoulder, drawing her away from her conversation with the Lord. She looked incredibly unimpressed until Victory whispered something in her ear, at which point she went completely rigid and bore an expression that looked like it might melt stone. 

Together, they practically flew across the flagstones and pulled Honor off the dance floor. He looked flustered, making his apologies as he was practically dragged off to the shadows of the colonnade, at which point his features turned sour. Third had seen that expression many times before: cool frustration with a dash of disappointment, coming together as a potent mix resulting in haughty disdain. He could damn near hear the words as well in his father’s patent patient (yet terrifying) tone: “I’m not in the mood for games. Explain yourself.”

However, Third watched as his father’s controlled visage dropped and paled, then was overtaken by anger. Victory stood back as Merciless and Honor began to argue in hushed tones, hidden from the view of the vast majority of their guests. As terrifying as it was to watch Mother and Father argue, Third never failed to be in admiration of his rather soft  
spoken father who (in all of Third’s now thirteen years) was the only man (or woman) who he had never seen back down from Merciless’s wrath. 

When Third looked back to Victory, he was half-running back to Third’s place at the table, excusing himself as he jostled guests when moving by. However, Victory froze as he looked up just beyond Third at the same time a heavy hand dropped on Third’s shoulder, setting him slightly off balance. 

“Ladies and gentlemen!” boomed a voice looming above Third, “Grant me your attention!”

At the demand, the dancing stopped and all eyes turned up to the speaker, Third’s as well. Standing over him in a purple tunic trimmed with gold was a tremendous man. He was tall and trim, his beard laced with grey and a slight smile playing on his lips. To Third’s eye, he did not seem unkind, but Third was still intimidated.

“Three cheers for this young man and the start of his thirteenth turn around the sun!” Three choruses of ‘huzzahs’ went up from the crowd, a deafening noise that rang in his ears. 

Third did his best to stand and face all the eyes on him, although fervently wishing to slide under the table and slink away.

“It is a very special day for this boy, as not only will be determined to be a mage, but at the end of his Trials of the Craft, should he complete them, the boy will receive a name!”

A murmur went through the crowd, many pointing and bearing curious expression while others looked on disdainfully, arms folded across their chests. Third understood this animosity. Hell, he was quite sure that his parents held some measure of resentment towards him too. After all, their lives suffered too when the diviners told them that Third was to be born, an affront to tradition and the current situation of their fief. Mother had been dismissed from the Lord’s service and Father had a hell of a time maintaining control of the fief when the serfs decided that if their overseers were not beholden to the law, then neither should they be. 

To receive a name would be the Lord ordaining this break from tradition. There were some among the vassals present who looked as if they might stage their own break from tradition if the Lord were to follow through on this act. 

But Third had very little time to reflect on the implications of this as the Lord’s Mage Superior walked forward holding the determining relic out towards Third.

It was a large sphere, made of blown glass and banded in gold. Two strips of the metal wrapped around the globe dividing it into four equal sections, much like the inside of an orange with only four slices. Each of the four sections represented a discipline of magic: evocation, enchanting, divination, and dispelling. The mage gestured that Third was to put his hands at the poles of the globe where the bands of gold met and crossed. 

Third looked out once more at his audience, noting Mother looking as though she would personally will Third to bring forth magic and Father not looking at all; he was engaged in conversation with a nearby Vassal who seemed to be engaged in casual conversation. Victory was doing some strange twisting motion with his hands, almost as if he held an invisible globe like the one that was being handed to Third in his own hands. His face was desperate and concerned, and Third finally realized that Victory was trying to mime holding one hand off the cross-section of the globe, fingers splayed and palm hovering slightly above where it would have met the metal.

He was mouthing, ‘don’t let them know if you have magic,’ over and over again. 

However, as the Mage Superior handed Third the globe, she clamped her hands down on Third’s making Victory’s point moot. Unable to lift his hands off the metal banding, Third felt as if some force was being pulled out of him and siphoned towards the glass ball. It felt like some force that dwelled deep in the pit of his stomach was being dragged outward and towards his hands, much as if someone was trying to pull his entrails out through his hands. He felt the blood in his arms, hands, and fingers pumping as the energy began to manifest in front of him. 

For all the power Third thought he felt surging through him, the result was anticlimactic to way the least. There was a small tendril of smoke in the globe in front of him that would have been missed if the Mage Superior’s eyes had not been fastened on the sphere. 

She snatched the relic away from Third, then knelt and held the globe aloft in front of her Lord. 

The Lord examined it for a moment, squinting. The Mage Superior pointed out the thin thread of smoke that twisted around the interior, and the Lord nodded, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. 

“That’s it?” he whispered to the mage, and she shrugged. “Don’t they usually have more, uh, gumption than that?”

“It may be fire magic, my Lord. I say we should proceed with the test. If he fails, I cannot see that being an issue. If he survives and ends up being a fire mage, he would be incredibly valuable to our retinue.”

The Lord held the relic in his hand for a moment, weighing it as he was weighing his decision. Then, with a shrug not dissimilar from the Mage Superior’s, he held the sphere aloft,  
“The boy has magic!” he bellowed, and the crowd began to cheer. The Mage Superior looked pityingly at Third before moving back towards her vanguard of mages, nodding and cuing them to start chanting. 

Third ignored the cheering crowd to watch the mages work. Erected behind them was a large frame of graven wood shaped like a circular door. As they continued to chant, the sigils on the door began to illuminate, one by one, bright even in the early afternoon. When at last every rune was shining, the image beyond the frame began to change. It began to reflect a large cavern, and Third could make out shapes that appeared to be tables topped with strange objects. 

“Off you go, boy,” the Lord says, shoving Third lightly towards the portal, “Your name will be waiting for you if you get back.”

If you get back, Third thinks gloomily as he steps through the portal and feels a rush of cold envelop him.


	5. Trials of the Craft

When Third looked back, the portal was gone. In its place was a heavy grate, shaped similarly to the portal, caging him in the chamber he now found himself in. From the far side he heard the echoes of the ocean, and he realized that he was in a cave set into a cliff. 

Having placed himself, and he found himself a good distance away from his home in the heartland of the kingdom, he proceeded to look around the chamber. There was one passageway leading out of it directly across from the metal bars, and tables flanked the sides of the room. On these tables lay a variety of objects, tools, Third realized. 

However, these were tools that he was (by and large) unfamiliar with. While he could recognize the diviner’s orb and a few different types of evoker’s wands (one looked like Victory’s wand), he had no idea as to the purpose of the vast majority of the contraptions and items. While he could guess at the wax pads and shimmering ink pots being tools of an enchanter, there were some weird balls and jeweled gloves and jointed, trap-looking things that he could not even begin to fathom.

It was at this moment, he realized how woefully unprepared he was for this ordeal.

If Ambrose had been his teacher, presumably he would understand some of these tools and be able to harness their power to survive his trials. However, absent a mentor, he would have to figure them out on his own. 

He grabbed a wand, one that looked like Victory’s, and held it in his hand purposefully. However, in spite of his attempts to concentrate or say whatever words came to mind, the wand remained lifeless. 

Third swung the wand around randomly, then finally discarded it and began to fool with the other tools on the tables. When he almost had has hand snapped in the trap-looking thing, he decided that he should perhaps be more careful, perhaps looking at the challenge in front of him to determine which tool he should use. 

He began to walk down the hallway that led away from the initial chamber, finally coming to a dead end in a smaller chamber, perfectly cylindrical and covered in runes. As he sat there for a moment contemplating what might help with this challenge, the rock around him began to shift. After a brief cry of surprise, he noticed that the rock beneath his feet stood firm, so let his alarm down. However, his fear was rekindled as the chamber began to shift downward, his feet still on firm ground, but the rest of the rock began sliding and he realized that he was being carried downwards. Light faded the second he passed low enough to no longer see the initial chamber. He screamed as the downward trajectory began to accelerate. 

This is it, he thought, All those years I survived Mother just to be killed by a damn rock.

His grim predictions were not to be, as the rock slowed to a gentle halt at the mouth of another passage. Third took the first moment of stillness to puke up his birthday feast. 

As his stomach calmed, he took stock of his surroundings. The tunnel was small and dim, lit by runes carved in the walls and ceiling that emitted a low, green light. 

As the rock behind him slid closed, he found that there was nothing to do but move forward. Well, and try and stick his fingers in the runes. He discovered that they were hot to the touch (he had to pull his hand back sharply, then shook it, glaring at the rune) and smelled softly metallic. Upon further inspection, he realized that they were made of metal that was inset in the stone, each with further engravings on the metal fabrication.

He moved forward through the passage, beginning to enjoy the faint light and how soft it could make the rock look. The silence didn’t bother him too much, and he enjoyed the company of his own footsteps for a time. 

At last, he came to another chamber, this one much larger than the first room he had been in. The pathway came to what could only be described as a beach and the walls extended to his left and right until the runes that covered their surfaces faded away into blackness. 

The first thing that Third noticed was that the water was not quite right. Having played (and been pushed) in pools and rivers that dotted and crossed his family’s estate for his whole life, he noticed that the way the water interacted with the shoreline was off. He dipped the toe of his boot in the pool, only to find that the liquid dripped off like a thin sludge. It was black, not reflecting the light that shone from the walls. He picked his foot and boot up towards his face, inspecting the liquid more closely and finding it had a very faint rancid scent. 

He put his foot down and inspected the short landing. No boat or vessel could be found and Third was not keen on swimming into the pitch black darkness. He sighed, assuming that this would be the point at which one would use magic to determine a trick to crossing the underground pool. He had a sinking feeling that his “trick” may consist of trying to swim and subsequently drown in the viscous water. They would never make it so easy as to just swim across. 

After racking his brain fruitlessly for a few minutes and coming to the conclusion that he could not, in fact, pries off enough metal runes to fashion a boat with, he sat glumly at the edge of the pond.

I wonder how Victory got across, he mused to himself. He reached down and touched the pool gently, dipping his fingers in only slightly to test and make sure that the waters was not actually flesh eating acid or something equally horrific. 

He was surprised on two counts, the first being that whoever had designed this test had found mercy somewhere in their heart and made the water not kill you (at least immediately) and secondly, that he could hear voices. 

He pulled his hand back sharply, sure that he had imagined it. His fingertips dripped the sludge for a solid few minutes as he looked in shock at the pool. After running through every possible explanation, he found himself deciding that either he had gone mad or, perhaps, there were (and he felt panic rising in his chest at this thought) dead things, dead children at the bottom of this pool. And he could hear them talking.


	6. The Pool

It was only after Third had determined that he either had no other options (even going back to the landing where he had originally been deposited) that did not involve touching the water again, did Third resolve to make contact once more. Well, he did consider dying out of principle, but quickly dismissed the thought as fatalistic and pointless. He was a necromancer (or mad) whether he liked it or not, so might as well make the best of it. 

He went back to the shoreline and took a deep breath. He caught a slight whiff of that rancid, rotting quality that the ichor had to it and chose not to dwell on the how’s and why’s of its scent. 

Crouching at the edge of the still waters, he let one finger from his pointer dip very slightly into the waters. 

“…even bring anything with him? Blind gods, and I thought I was dumb,” came a drawling voice, laden with disdain.

“No, no, shh you, he’s doing something again,” chirped an excited voice, laced lightly with mania.

“Interesting choice. No one’s ever thought of touching the water. How much do you want to bet he’ll try to swim?” came the drawling voice, and Third could almost hear a smile stretch across dead lips.

“Come now, let’s hope not. This fellow may have some surprises in him yet,” came a crisp voice, maybe from one of the more refined provinces. Third wondered what she was doing here, most provinces had their own testing grounds. He had even heard of provinces where no one had ever died in the Trials. Mother dismissed these provinces as weak, both for allowing ‘failures’ back into society as lesser mages and as failures of parenting. After all, she had many times said around the dinner table, what parent would let helpless children grow to maturity and become helpless adults. Father had remained sagely quiet about these matters, and Third had a sneaking suspicion that he may be of a mind to side with these ‘soft boiled skirt wearers’ (Mother’s words, not his) in more matters than just this.

“Um,” Third ventured, “Hello there?”

The absolute cacophony of shouting and astonishment that followed set Third reeling back, his finger moving from the waters. He rapidly dipped his hand back in

“It’s a blind-bound witch!” came the drawling voice, accent more pronounced as it yelled over the others, “A blind-bound, bone cracking necromancer! What under the bleeding nine eyes…”

“Language!! We do have some semblance of dignity around here, you lot! Have you forgotten the rules we all agreed on?!” the haughty voice called.

“Damned be your rules, who are you?” came the shrill voice, piercingly loud and shrieking over the rest. 

It took a moment for Third to recognize that the question was addressed at him, only realizing in the absence of the other voices. 

“I was named Third.” 

“Oh. Odd. Is this tradition among country folk?” queried the haughty one to her compatriots. 

“Naw, not where I’m from,” responded the dull one.

“You’re a necromancer, right?” called out the loud one.

“Um, yes? I mean, I think so, but I’m not sure. I’m still holding out that I might just be crazy, but we’ll see. Who’re all of you? Is it just you three?” 

The voices all lowered to a dull thrum as they lowered their voices and began converse among themselves. For a few minutes they spoke like this, whispers sometimes fierce and angry, until at last the proper one came forward to address Third. 

“My name is Exaction and I have been chosen to come forward to speak for our group. The one with the low manner is Solize, but please don’t think less of her for being low born; despite her appearance, she is a good soul. We decided that if she’d been born into a good family, a diviner would have done well to give her the name Tenacity. She is also the oldest of all of us, refusing to move on. Among us three, we find that she…”

“Gore my eyes out with a pick, move on.”

“It’s funny because her eyes are long gone.” Cackling ensued.

“I was chosen to speak, and I will make out introductions,” said Exaction placing emphasis on the ‘I’s. “Moving on. The excitable one is Demoniac, not a very flattering name, but what can one do?”

“I like the name Hammond, but she refuses to call me that even though she calls Solize Tenacity.”

“You cannot very well name yourself lower than you’re born, it’s degrading.”

Third could hear Solize snort.

“This all sounds very confusing,” Third says. 

“You have no idea,” replies Solize, “There’s not much to do down here other than make simple things into bloody clusterfucks. Maybe you could help us.” As Solize says this, there is a slight hopeful lilt to her voice.

Third gulps, wondering what dead men could possibly want. 

“How about a deal? If you can help me get across this lake, I’ll do whatever I can for you. I swear. But, uh, you should know, I really don’t know much about necromancy. Everything I’ve done so far has just sort of, well, happened to me. It’s pretty random right now.”

There’s an irritated huff and some more mutterings among the three; Third can picks out a few phrases, the most interesting of which is, “You don’t need to be embarrassed about it, you just need help,” which is quickly followed by a firm ‘no.’

“Oh for the love of the All Seeing God. He assistance in being laid to rest, he can’t figure it out on his own. If you would be so kind…”

“Exaction! What the hell?! That’s private!”

Before the argument continues, Third interrupts. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’d be of much help anyways, I don’t know how to do that.”

There is silence from the three before Solize chimes in once more. “Wow, you’re a pretty shit necromancer.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling you!”

There is another brief moment of peace before Solize speaks again. “Well, not that the cat’s out of the bag, would you at least be willing to try?”

“Well, sure.” An awkward silence passes and Third has flashbacks to the entry chamber and randomly trying to activate all those magical tools comes rushing in. Worse still, he thinks, what if he somehow mucks it up? 

At last, Third places both of his hands in the water, scrambling and trying to think of everything he’s heard at funerals that he could copy. 

“We are gathered here today in honor of Solize. She was a…good? Yes, he was a good woman, so sad that she was ripped from…”

“Put a stitch in it,” cuts Solize’s voice, “You think we haven’t tried that? All the rites we could think of and some we invented. No, we need necromancer stuff, not faux-diviner bullshit.”

“Oh, well then. Hm.” Third thinks back to the frog, the memory eagerly jumping to the front of his mind despite his prior attempts to suppress it. “Then I’ll probably need your bones.” He’s not sure why exactly he said that, but it’s what seemed right. 

“Keep your hands in the pool,” Solize says, “I’ll see what I can do. Also, just for your personal reference, we feel stronger when you touch the pool.”  
The pool is still for a long minute, then waves start lapping at Third’s hands, unbidden by any wind or natural movement. They start to wash over Third’s hands in earnest and, finding the ichor disgusting and oily, Third pulls his hands back out.

He almost immediately puts them back in but, nonetheless, gets chewed out by Solize. 

“…confounded, twice-branded bones, sinking again. Oi, hollow-sockets! How about next time you don’t take your hands out of the pool and make me lose all my progress?”  
“I didn’t realize I was helping,” Third apologizes.

“Oh, the necromancer doesn’t realize he’s a damnable fount of energy for the dead, fancy that. Blind-bound gods, what kind of piss-poor mentor must you’ve had?”

“Oh, my mother killed him in a duel and then forgot to give me a new one.”

Solize is stunned into silence for a moment. “Well, fine then, you get one pass,” she mutters, “Now, don’t take your hands out this time.”

Third keeps his hands in the nasty lake, even as waves begin to crash roughly around his ankles. At last, he can see shapes reflecting the greenish glow of the runes. He reaches forward and snatches the bones before they can sink once more down the slope to what he now realizes must be a small treasure trove of bones sunk to the bottom of the lake. 

“And you promise if I lay you to rest, the rest of you will help me get across?”

“Absolutely, we wouldn’t dare go back on our word. The way across it really quite simple, just create waves in the water; they will slosh up onto the invisible stepping stones that go across the cavern. Diviners can see right through the illusion, but they are stable for any who wish to use them,” says Exacting. 

“And you don’t want me to try and lay you to rest as well?”

“Oh, no, but the offer is appreciated. Demoniac and I will move on whenever we please, it just Solize who is metaphysically constipated,” she says as Third can hear the slight smirk in her voice and almost hear the muttered vulgarity that Solize replies with. 

“Right then.” Third looks down at the remains clutched in his arms. Pulling back from the shoreline somewhat, he lays down the bones with care. They are clearly old, discolored by the ooze to a moderate grey, flecks of black filling the pores. 

Third lays them down with care, thinking back to the frog. The raw emotion that had coursed through his at the time had clouded his memory of exactly what happened, but Third can piece together some fragments that may help with laying Solize to rest. 

Through the roiling emotions that had coursed through him, he remembers holding the frog cupped in both hands and huddling over it. While at the time, he thought that the feelings coursing through his gut were emotionally based, after feeling the relic pull at his magical powers, he recognizes these feelings as magical power coursing through him. 

Remembering watching Victory’s training, Third closes his eyes and begins to breathe into his belly, reaching out blindly and pulling the bone his hand lands on towards himself. As his hand makes contact with the bone, he feels the breath begin to stir something in his gut, something unnatural. 

Running with his intuition, Third brings the bone up to touch his forehead, then opens his eyes. He realizes that he’s lifted a crumbling skull to his face and is looking in the sockets where the eyes should be. He takes another deep breath and exhales through his mouth, letting his breath wash over the skull, almost blowing away any tether Solize’s soul might have with it. At least, that’s Third’s visualization. 

Feeling a strange release, the skull now feels hollow to Third as if any presence had left it. From around him, he realizes that the subtle, radiating energy he felt from Solize’s other bones is not gone as well. 

Taken by a sudden urge, Third closes his eyes and impulsively presses his hands together, cracking the skull and crushing it beneath his hands. Splinters of bone fill the air and batter his face, then land with a gentle clatter.

When Third opens his eyes, all is quiet and the waters are still before him. It feels only proper to say something in acknowledgement, so Third takes a dignified pose and bows his head towards the calm lake. 

“Rest in peace, Solize; your soul has gone into the arms of the gods now.”

“What in the seven hells are you talking about you little shit, I’m still here!”

Third damn near jumps out of his skin as he turns and sees a figure, presumably Solize, hovering behind him and, even in her vague, dim, ethereal form, obviously pissed beyond belief.


	7. Solize

Third stands there, looking at Solize and then back at the pile of bones and the shattered skull, then back at Solize. But, no, she is still there.

“Well, I guess we now know that’s not the way to lay a soul to rest.”

“You think?!”

“Do you want me to try again?”

“No!” Solize shouts, then kicks at a pebble in the shore. He ethereal foot goes right through it, not moving it in the slightest. “I just…” she trails off. Anger is writ in every dim part of her translucent body, tension plain in the dull cavern lights. “I just wanted to rest. You don’t sleep when you’re dead, you know? I just want to go to sleep one last time.”  
Third pauses and ponders for a moment as Solize looks over the surface of the lake in silence, her shoulders now slumping a bit.

“I know that I can’t help you right now. But how about we make a deal? I don’t want to learn necromancy, but I would be willing to learn just enough to help you find peace. If you stick around, I’ll find a way to help you.”

Solize continues looking over the placid water-like substance for a few minutes, mulling over Third’s words.

“Fine,” she says as last, “It’s not like I have any other options.” She turns around and looks at Third with what feels like distain, Third can’t be sure as her expression is less than clear. However, the aura of being absolutely unimpressed is overpowering. “Let’s start by getting your bleeding, worthless hide over this nasty muck. Follow my steps.”

Solize begins to move out over the liquid, Third imitating her steps. He no longer hears Hammond and Exaction, his boots blocking his contact with the ichor, as it is too thick to allow seepage into Third’s boots. Solize moves quickly, and Third is hard pressed to follow in her path.

“Solize stop,” Third is finally forced to say, “I can’t see where you’re stepping anymore, the light is too dim.”

There is no response, and Third fears that he has been left in the dark, standing on a smooth stepping-stone in the middle of a lake with no way forward or back. He feels panic rise in his chest, threatening to move into a full-blown attack.

However, before the fear can manifest, he senses a presence close to his front.

“Oh, thank heavens. By the blind gods, please don’t leave me like that again, I get these fits of fear that basically…”

Third is cut off when he feels the malevolence and distain from the thing in front of him wash over his person. It’s like feeling a sneer.

“Pathetic,” comes a vicious hiss, now circling Third, and Third gets the sense that he’s being weighed like a slab of meat on the butcher’s block. This is not Solize. Tremors start to wrack Third’s whole body and he can feel his breath catching in his chest, as if he’s drowning on plain air.

“Not even worth the time it took visit,” the thing states, then its presence dissipates.

Third tries to put together a cohesive though, but all he can feel is frozen by the memory of the malice that emanated from the thing. He’s breathing in heaving, painful gasps and shaking violently now, feet struggling to remain planted on the rock beneath them.

Third’s heel slips, and the rest of him is not far behind it, landing on his back and sinking fast. The dark cavern is replaced by dark ichor closing over his head, and he tries to scream but is rewarded with a mouth full of foul liquid. He tries to swim, but, viscous properties of the ichor aside, there is no coordination in his limbs.

At last, a single, unhelpful thought makes its way to the front of the panic clouding Third’s mind: he’s going to die.

That’s when he feels the hands pressing on his back, two sets of small hands pushing him up. As he begins to rise, he feels a strong grip around each of his wrists, pulling him up as well. His head breaks the surface of the waters and the hands around his wrists move to cup his face, holding his head above the surface.

“…was that?” comes a lilting voice from behind Third as Third does his best to spit or drool the ichor out of his mouth, small amounts of air once more making their way to his lungs.

“Brand me if I know, just keep pushing,” grunts Solize from above him.

“If I may be so bold, we should hurry. I don’t know how long I can keep this up.”

The trio manages to maneuver Third up to the bank of a small island in the middle of the lake, dragging him partway up the edge of the outcropping before they drop him in exhaustion. Third manages to claw himself the rest of the way onto the stone platform, then lets the panic attack run its course.

Third doesn’t know how long he has been laying on the cool rock when his breath finally settles into its normal pattern and the trembling stops. He pushes himself up, taking stock of his new surroundings. The island is small, a no larger from side to side than ten paces. On each of the four corners are posts, each as tall as a man and set with glowing runes. In the dim light cast from the, Third can see a large pit in the middle with a set of stairs circling down further into the cavern. He can also make out a shadow seated next to him, patiently waiting for him to acknowledge it.

“Thank you,” Third says as he turns to Solize.

“Don’t sweat it. From what little I know of you, I’m damn sure you’ve done the same for me.”

“Undoubtedly,” Third says as he arranges himself, his clothes sticking to him unpleasantly, “Do you by chance know the thing that talked to me?”  
“I don’t even know how I was able to grab you, let alone what that thing was,” Solize says with a small huff from long-dead lungs.

They sat in silence for a few minutes more, each reflecting on the events that just transpired, Solize with morbid curiosity and Third with trepidation. After a few minutes, Third made to stand up, motioning for Solize to do the same.

“Nothing to be done about it now, best to move onward. I don’t suppose you had a formal training in how to manage these challenges?”

“Fat lot of good it did me, but, sure, I had a bit of training.”

Third turned to look at the stairs descending further into the bowels of the earth. “How about you tell me about it while we walk? I have this awful feeling that that won’t be a small flight of stairs.”

“Sure thing, meat bag.”


End file.
